


Femininity

by orphan_account



Category: Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen, Seigaku
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-02
Updated: 2006-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 02:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing booths. Fuji in lace, Yukimura in fishnet stockings. Do I really need to elaborate?  Warning: genfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Femininity

  
Due to the appointment of one of the most singular characters ever to grace Japanese education to the position of Seishun Gakuen High School Div. principal - Kawamura said in earnest tones but with a little frown that he was _sure_ the school board knew what they were doing, while Inui hmmphed and scribbled on his handheld PDA, which on his sixteenth birthday had replaced the stack of notebooks underneath his bed (“Good data,” he said, and nobody disagreed) - the school held its first ever Valentine’s Day festival towards the end of Fuji’s second year.

It was not precisely a St. Valentine’s festival. Technically it was a ‘student-organised fair for fostering links between Seishun Gakuen and the local community, as well as to showcase student activities and talent,’ which usually meant it was a message to the public high school two streets down: ‘See how much better we can do things with an extra hundred million yen in the annual budget.’ The propitious selected date of the fete being what it was, though, no class or club in Seigaku Koko could be expected to come up with ideas for booths that were workable, legal _and_ non-licentious. Or at least none of the supposedly above-average brains in class 2A could do so.

On the first of the mornings set aside for festival preparation, class representative Oiishi stood up and patiently but wearily attempted to organize the students, in particular the small but growing clump of students in the back corner taking bets on this year’s chocolate intake, which showed every sign of ignoring his efforts until Tezuka, seated in the next-to-last row by dint of height, folded his arms across his chest and glared. This did not intimidate the students so much as it reminded them that there was no way to measure the outcome of the bets, since it was _almost_ certain that Tezuka would get the most chocolate, and dead certain that whatever quantity he received, he was not making the information public.

After this discouragement, there was a general drifting of bodies towards their assigned seats, and some semblance of order achieved, with no other distractions save the usual one of Nakasato-san, who showed little interest in showcasing anything other than her long toned legs, ivory-pale and hairless, emerging from a pleated skirt eight centimeters shorter than regulation. At least one-third of Class 2A’s male population could be seen watching Nakasato’s calves at any moment. Even Tezuka had looked at least once; Fuji had caught him at it one afternoon during a particularly desultory math class - although it would be unlikely to happen this morning, since the tall bespectacled boy was currently occupied reminding everyone, in typical motionless and non-verbal Tezuka fashion, that he was student body president and had to _run_ the festival, which meant that he was exempt from helping out with the class booth, or otherwise participating in any inconvenient and embarrassing duties that might crop up.

Some days Fuji thought it might be convenient to be Tezuka, save for the side-effect of boring oneself to death. Tezuka seemed to get his way in everything, with none of the effort that Fuji had to put into doing so: for every hour spent thinking up elaborate schemes to cancel a day’s worth of class, Tezuka merely had to nod and bow and produce his usual lack of expression, which somehow resulted in total cooperation on the part of whomever he was speaking to.

Fuji contemplated Tezuka’s unnatural and unfair superhumanity, not for the first time mourning the fact that beneath the (extremely thick) layer of stoicism there was no scrap of humanity to be found conducive to cooperating with Fuji’s purposes. This had been particularly galling this year since Eiji, his usual partner-in-crime, was no longer in the same class - a mistake on Fuji’s part: Yuuta had overwatered the cacti the morning before last year’s final exams, and caught between grief for his favourite star cactus and resisting the urge to stab his younger brother in the throat (Yuuta had been about to graduate from St. Rudolph, and everyone was being extra-nice to get him to move back home), he’d glanced down five minutes before handing in the paper and realized in horror that he’d answered every single question correctly, even the ten-step differential equation meant for college-level. There was no chance of going to class 2D after that, and so Fuji bade Eiji farewell, and said hello to advanced mathematics, straight-A expectations, Oishi’s earnestness and Tezuka’s stern seriousness.

There were advantages, like Nakasato-san’s legs, although as Fuji turned his attention back to the classroom discussion he realized, with the first prickle of unease, that Nakasato for only the third time that year was showing interest in school activities and this could be constituted either as a Very Good or a Very Bad thing, depending on which side of the crossfire you ended up on.

That there would be crossfire was never in doubt, particularly as Nakasato opened her mouth and said, in that deliciously artificial and languid voice of hers: “I think we should have a kissing booth.”

Any suggestion Nakasato made would have been greeted with enthusiasm by the male half of 2A, particularly when uttered by those pert lips painted over in pink glitter gloss, but it was testament to the effect of Valentine’s Day that the girls, who hated Nakasato as much as the boys loved her, took to the idea at once. With such a majority vote in effect the decision was made at once, even with the class representative looking askance (with good reason, since he’d been placed back on the ‘tennis club bachelors’ list after abandoning the egg-style haircut, and besides being expected to receive a trunkful of Valentine’s chocolate he would no doubt be recruited to man the booth). Fuji smiled and abstained from voting as hands were raised, not so much to look neutral as because he hadn’t finished calculating the odds yet – potential enjoyable humiliation to other people versus potential unenjoyable humiliation to himself? It was a delicate equation.

What he hadn’t calculated upon that Nakasato-san was watching with narrowed long-lashed eyes as the vote was counted, and as the best-looking girl in second-year Nakasato considered it her duty to have the most eligible males in the school hanging off her every word. Tezuka she’d given up as a lost cause, and Oishi was obliging enough to satisfy even Nakasato’s ego, but from Fuji she seemed to demand a certain level of lovelorn behaviour, which he enacted occasionally for entertainment, but now she was staring at him the way a five-year-old child stares at a broken clockwork toy, and suddenly the whole thing had become very unamusing--

“I think,” Nakasato continued, in triumphant tones, “that we should have Fuji dress as a girl.”

#

It was from shoujo manga, his sister Yumiko explained over tea and biscuits the next afternoon, and Fuji smiled sweetly and said, I know about these strange places girls get ideas from, but is there any way to get out of doing this, and if not could we please go to that Cajun restaurant in Shinjuku for dinner, I’m feeling quite desolate here?

He hadn’t thought he could feel much worse, especially when Eiji walked up at club practice and told him he would look cute as a girl, but the downward spiraling of his stomach as they went clothes-hunting that weekend told him there was further to go. Nakasato-san picked out matching dresses in snowy white and ice-blue, only hers was strapless and ended halfway down her thighs while Fuji’s was several sizes larger and went down to his ankles, with elbow-length floral sleeves because thin as Fuji was, he played tennis five days out of seven and it _showed_ , in the broad angles of his shoulders and the musculature of his legs. This seemed not to deter the girls of 2A one jot, as they simply pulled the ribbons tighter about his waist, muttered something about a makeup session, and proceeded to squeal about how beautiful his bones were. Fuji accepted this with a weak smile, being used to compliments but not to hearing them while dressed in lace and faux satin with four teenage girls critically examining his hair, lips pursed.

“They say they’re going to curl it, then maybe put some flowers in,” he told his sister over dinner that night (spiced ramen and strawberry cake; Mother had her hands full encouraging both her sons’ flagging spirits).

“I’d wondered about that,” Yumiko said, and added, “have they bought you gloves as well?”

Fuji answered in the negative, to which Yumiko replied by saying she would buy him some tomorrow, and before Fuji could say, Hell might freeze, or Eiji sit still in class for one hour, she’d told him that he could either wear gloves or get a manicure and moisturize his hands for the six days remaining until the festival. Fuji was about to respond rather indignantly, that he _did_ moisturize, when he remembered his current objective of retaining whatever vestige of masculine pride remained to him.

He submitted to the gloves, and the fact that they were silver-white leather and resembled Gundam Wing more than they did Card Captor Sakura was little consolation in the face of everything else, in particular tennis practice which was starting to slip across the border from ‘masochistic’ to ‘downright unbearable’. The one bright spot was that Eiji had abandoned teasing Fuji in favour of Oishi, mostly because Eiji couldn’t reconcile himself to the thought of his doubles partner kissing more girls in a day than he normally did in a week. Echizen still being in junior high would have been another bright spot, except that Fuji knew Momoshiro still went over to the Seigaku Chuu school grounds twice or thrice a week (as did Tezuka for tennis practice, but Fuji had no fear from that quarter) for burgers and camaraderie. That Fila cap and now-breaking-on-adolescence-but-still-cocky voice would no doubt be a presence at the festival.

“At least he won’t want to kiss you,” Kawamura said, which was meant to be consoling but had the reverse effect of reminding Fuji that aside from being in a dress and flowers and fake diamond choker he had the added duty of salesman. Or rather, being the goods on sale.

“Prostitution is such a crude practice,” he said to Yumiko. His sister just looked at him and reminded him that he’d always liked _Moulin Rouge_ , and Fuji protested that the movie was about love and bohemian freedom, and this bodies-for-sale thing was an outdated imperialist custom, and he’d meant to sound witty and self-deprecating but it came out whiny and sort of panicky in a way that reminded him of Inui’s Aozu juice.

“Just give up,” Nakasato advised him the Thursday before the festival. She was experimenting with eyeshadow on his cheek, in particular the blending of viridian with silver powder and its combination with ultramarine mascara. She offered Fuji her black compact mirror; he looked in spite of himself and then promptly wished that he hadn’t.

“Aren’t I cooperating well enough, Nakasato-san?” he said, in his usual voice which sounded sweet and wistful to everyone, even his family and the tennis regulars who _knew_ otherwise. Fuji had never set out to make himself look gentle and deceptive; genetics had simply turned out that way, and at some point in elementary school he’d given up and decided it was a convenient device. “I have no intention of letting the class down. I just wish--”

Nakasato’s hand paused in mid-air, her makeup brush two inches away from dusting Fuji’s cheek with rouge. “You just wish?”

“Don't you sometimes wish,” he continued, “that things could have turned out differently?”

The brush descended, and Nakasato continued to apply makeup in swift, expert strokes. Her oval fingernails gleamed in the classroom light.

“I do, actually,” she said, and as she leaned forward her long dark curls of hair swung forward to brush Fuji's shoulder. “Quite frequently.”

 

#

 

  
The galling thing was that Fuji did look like a girl when they were done; an extremely pretty girl, albeit somewhat taller and more angular than average – but that was difficult to distinguish beneath twelve layers of satin ruffles.

“If your chest weren’t so flat I’d date you,” Eiji told him the morning of Valentine’s Day, which was _bright_ and _sunny_ and would no doubt encourage half the people in Tokyo to come out and enjoy the wonderful weather, particularly with those gigantic heart-shaped scarlet balloons that some overenthusiastic freshman class had seen fit to hang across the venue.

Fuji did not dignify that statement with a reply, and decided to make some things clear before the festival began and chocolate drove everyone mad. “Eiji, I don’t think this is entirely necessary, but--”

“What is it?” Eiji grinned at him, cheerful and bouncy and all set to enjoy a day in which he did not have to dress as a girl.

“…I would like not to be kissed by anyone on the tennis team,” Fuji said delicately. “Including yourself, of course.”

Eiji paused for a few seconds to digest that information, but seemed to get the idea, because he patted Fuji on one lace-enclosed shoulder and said of course he would spread the word, Kawada-san’s drawings are really pretty but some of the comics she makes are quite frightening, nyah, and she’s always after the sports teams, so of course we’ll all leave you alone, especially Tezuka-buchou, we’ll make sure he stays away.

Fuji, who had not particularly been in fear of Tezuka kissing him, thought of Kawada-san and her desk stuffed full of doujinshi, and recalled that time in third year of junior high when he’d developed a passing interest in shoujo manga, and decided that he must have been temporarily insane. His current renunciation of all things girly did nothing to deter Kawada-san, however, as at ten o’clock sharp she stationed herself on a wooden crate in front of class 2A’s booth, camera and sketchbook in hand, and despite two hours in which a steady stream of _only_ the female sex came forward to kiss Fuji (they always had a box of Valentine’s chocolate for him as well as the eight hundred yen fee; some sort of lovers’ gift was apparently _de rigueur_ for this festive occasion), showed no signs of wanting to move from the spot.

“It’s strange,” Nakasato-san said, and she had a little frown on her forehead that only made her look cuter, the way horn-rimmed spectacles or purple-and-yellow polka dots or anything else that made normal teenage girls look like horror movies always made her look cuter. “I know Seigaku isn’t exactly a school full of illicit scandal, but surely at least _one_ boy would have liked to try.”

Fuji was too tired and sick of the scent of makeup to summon anything more than a small noise of protest at the suggestion. He was currently occupied with the contemplation of lips: chapped lips, soft lips, lips that smelled of class 3C’s fried chicken, lips stained with crimson lipstick that smeared everywhere at the slightest touch (the 2A girls had already had to fix his makeup five times). The first ten or so pairs of lips had been a new and wonderful experience, particularly the little first-year who’d stared at the ground while handing him his chocolate and nearly burst into tears after pecking him on the corner of his mouth, but everything since 11.30 a.m. had blurred into one long memory of wide, eyeliner-rimmed eyes and nervous female twittering.

Kawada, who’d looked up to hear what Nakasato was saying, nodded vigorously, her eyes gleaming with fellow manic indignation. “It’s insupportable! Seigaku men are stupid and dull and unable to appreciate what’s right before their eyes!"

"That statement was pretty intelligent,” came a sharp male voice from several metres away, out of Fuji’s line of sight. There was something familiar about it, but the sharp noon light and the smell of Nakasato’s breath mints (she’d been the one with the foresight to bring some, and all six kissers-on-duty had been helping themselves liberally) were making his head fuzzy.

“Now, now, Akaya; how many times have I told you to assess a situation carefully before making judgments?” _This_ voice was familiar as well, and compounded with the familiar name made Fuji’s back stiffen. “For all you know, that conversation could have taken place in an unexpected and inappropriate context.”

A shock of pale hair appeared in front of booth 2A, accompanied a pair of narrow brown eyes Fuji usually associated with mustard-yellow uniforms and a taut, sweat-drenched atmosphere of danger, but which were right now crinkled with amusement juxtaposed with a sneer. “Definitely inappropriate, oh Master Strategist of ours,” he said. “Although not unexpected, I wouldn’t say.”

“What is it, Niou-kun?” Fuji was unsurprised to see the immaculately combed hair of Yagyuu Hiroshi emerge next, although it did beg the question of _why_ Rikkai’s nationally-ranked tennis regulars were spending valuable Sunday practice time frequenting Tokyo high school fairs and whether they were planning anything cruel and potentially embarrassing to the second star player of Seigaku.

Kawada-san had brightened visibly at the appearance of other attractive males; Nakasato was checking them out in her usual calculating manner (Niou’s eyes narrowed in interest as he saw her; he propped an elbow against the edge of the booth and said, “Hel _lo_.”) when Yanagi Renji and Kirihara Akaya arrived as well, each holding several bags full of shiny, beribboned chocolate boxes. Now that he was noticing, Yagyuu and Niou were carrying a fair quantity of chocolate as well, although nobody was drowning in it the way Kirihara was, or at least nobody seemed to until Jackal arrived, resembling a collapsing supermarket display more than he did a half-Brazilian tennis player.

The six plastic bags about to fall off Kirihara’s hands didn’t seem to deter his joy at seeing Fuji, or rather Fuji suffocating in lace with an artificial lily stuck behind his left ear. “Oh, this is _great_!” he crowed, waving a box of Hershey’s Kisses around in the air. “I thought Tachibana-san was playing tricks on us, but it’s true. Yagyuu-sempai, where’s your camera? I can’t wait to show this around next year at Nationals…”

“Akaya,” spoke a voice slightly more feminine than Fuji’s own, “you’re ruining my chocolate.”

By this time most of the rest of 2A had crowded around to see what the commotion was, including Oishi, who had just been kissed by a tall, strapping girl from the basketball team and didn’t look one-tenth as terrible as Fuji felt. There was therefore a more-than-ample quantity of witnesses as the last three remaining Rikkai members approached the scene, prominent among them Kawada-san, who had a hand cupped around her mouth and looked like she was about to die of happiness.

On the left was Marui Bunta, blowing an almost-continuous stream of green chewing-gum bubbles, cradling two bulging sacks (actual sacks like the ones used to store rice and potatoes) as well as a cheerful over-energetic expression strongly reminiscent of Eiji, except that Fuji knew that Marui was far more intelligent than Eiji was, and not half so kind. On the right was Sanada Genichirou, looking strangely naked without his baseball cap, carrying less chocolate than Jackal was but somewhat more than Kirihara.

In the middle was Rikkai’s captain Yukimura, looking serene as ever despite the sun shining right across his eyes, and smiling as if he were not dressed in a knee-length flared dress the exact same shade of yellow as the Rikkai uniforms, not to mention fishnet stockings and platform leather boots that must have taken someone _days_ to find the right size of, even though Yukimura’s feet were fairly small for a five-foot eleven-inch tall teenage boy.

“Sorry, buchou,” Kirihara said unrepentantly even as Kawada-san told someone, “Move out of the way, I need a good _picture_.”

A quarter of Fuji’s brain was trying to figure out what exactly was going on (which was a great deal of brain, given that he always devoted one-third to thinking up new sources of amusement). At least another quarter was noting with some jealousy that Yukimura, who always looked comparatively feminine on the courts, looked male in spite of the beautifully applied makeup, the silver jewellery and soft long eyelashes. Maybe it was the difference between playing tennis five days out of seven and seven days out of seven, but the fact remained that Fuji resembled a beautiful, stylish girl cosplaying CLAMP characters while Yukimura looked exactly what he was, an athletic teenage male dressed in drag – an _attractive_ athletic teenage male, whom even Nakasato was eyeing with interest, although the glint in her eyes was as much mercenary as it was flirtatious.

“Sorry to spoil your fun, boys, but if you’re not here for business you need to stop clogging up our traffic,” she said, leaning forward with lowered eyelids.

“Eight hundred yen? I'll pay,” Niou said immediately. Nakasato held out a slender hand for to receive the pink recycled paper coupons that served as currency for today’s festival; once he’d counted the amount she reached up and cupped his face.

Even Oishi, who was rarely caught doing anything so impolite as staring, tended to be distracted by Nakasato’s expert technique.

After a few seconds Nakasato placed her hands on Niou’s chest and pushed him away. “Sorry, darling; the fee only covers basics.” - “So do we get extra service if we pay more?” – She laughed and swatted at him.

Fuji wondered if Nakasato would listen to him if he explained to her the dynamics of Seigaku’s tennis team and its opponents – _“Rikkai is one of those schools that crosses the line from being a bastion of friendly rivalry into the realm of actual evil. Fraternizing with Rikkai tennis regulars is discouraged and may be hazardous to one’s health.”_

“I think you should kiss Fuji,” Marui told Kirihara.

“Why should I?” said Kirihara, who fortunately looked as outraged as Fuji felt.

“Because it’ll be embarrassing for him, of course!” He leaned over and spat his gum into the closest rubbish bin, which was more than three meters away. All non-tennis players present looked impresssed.

“You forgot to mention that it’ll be embarrassing for me as well,” Kirihara pointed out.

“It will?” Marui said, taking a box of (Yukimura’s) Hershey’s Kisses from Kirihara and peeling it open. He unwrapped a chocolate with unnatural speed and popped it into his mouth. “Ah well, I guess I'll have to do it myself then.”

“You will?” An outburst from Kawada-san, who had no right to be tweaking controls on her camera with anticipation, as if Fuji had given her permission to take photographs.

“Sure I will,” Marui said. He was smiling that happy pseudo-Eiji grin again as he handed several slips of paper to Nakasato. “Eight hundred yen, right?”

“Perfect.” Nakasato-san had reverted to her usual seductive and bored expression, although there was a strange look in her eyes as she nodded at Fuji. “Anytime you like.”

Fuji hated the noonday sun, hated Rikkai and lace and eccentric school principals who permitted Valentine’s Day festivals very intensely, and rolled that hate into a little black ball stored deep within his heart, ready to wreak havoc on another day.

“Well, Marui-kun,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” He looked through his ultramarine-tinted eyelashes with what he hoped was a coy look, although it was difficult to do so when the red-haired self-declared tennis genius was an inch shorter than he was. Yanagi and Yukimura, at least, had twigged to how nervous he felt; the former looked inquisitive and the latter looked sympathetic, which really was the last straw. Tezuka at least had never had the gall to display pity for his rivals' team members.

Marui chewed speculatively on his chocolate.

Fuji decided that closing his eyes would be a bad idea. The silence stretched, punctuated only by several girls giggling, and several onlookers were starting to twitch impatiently by the time Marui swallowed, darted forward and planted his lips on Fuji’s forehead.

A collective sigh of relief, counterpointed by Kawada-san’s disappointed, “But that wasn’t a _real_ kiss!”

Kirihara scowled at Yagyuu. “You didn’t get a _photo_."

“You didn’t ask me for one,” Yagyuu said, unperturbed.

Yukimura, who seemed perfectly aware that his hair clashed horribly with his dress and that this did not detract from his dangerous aura of charisma, stepped forward so that he was right in front of the booth. “By the way, Fuji, you look terrible. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to talk; would you like to stop and have a chat?”

Pointing out that they had _never_ had a chance to talk didn’t seem useful at this stage.

“Fuji’s on duty,” said Oishi, who by now looked as helpless as Fuji felt, but he must have felt some obligation to save his teammate from Rikkai’s clutches.

“Well, it’s nearly time for his lunch break,” Yukimura said, whose tennis captain powers of omnipotence seemed to work even when he was wearing silver hoop earrings and a fake fur shawl, something Fuji was not sure Tezuka was capable of. “Even volunteer workers should have some rights, don’t you think?” he said to Nakasato.

Nakasato had that peculiar expression on her face again as she looked at Yukimura, but she shrugged. “As long as Fuji-kun comes back within forty-five minutes, and provided his clothes and makeup are intact.”

“I wasn’t planning to _do_ anything to his clothes.” Yukimura laughed, which made Fuji contemplate the efficacy of protest. Yukimura seemed to care very little about the willingness of his teammates’ cooperation, provided that the cooperation was there, but he seemed to at least maintain a veneer of politeness when it came to the general public. It only remained to decide whether staying here, and kissing another twelve or so girls which was monotonous but not altogether unpleasant, save for the teasing and exclamations about how _cute_ he was, or going with Yukimura, which would probably not be monotonous or require kissing (he hoped) but would probably involve prickly soul-searching questions and other difficult things like that because Yukimura, unlike Tezuka, was desperately _proactive_ with that tennis captain invincibility of his, and couldn’t be trusted to stick to assigning his own team laps and cleaning duty, was the better option.

“Fuji-sempai,” came a familiar voice amidst all this, and Echizen Ryoma appeared from behind a candyfloss stall, only to pause in surprise at the unexpected glut of tennis players.

“I think,” Fuji said to Yukimura, “that I shall accept your invitation.”

“Excellent. Shall we get going, then?’ Yukimura inclined his head towards the south gate. Somewhere in that direction, Fuji recalled, was a little street of cafes so expensive even private school students were reluctant to frequent the area.

“May I come?” asked Kawada-san, who had already placed her sketchbook and pencils into a little portable bag with slim androgynous figures decorating the cover.

Without changing his tone Yukimura said, “Genichirou, please get rid of her. Preferably without blood, but if it’s necessary get Yagyuu to help.”

#

Fortunately Sanada was more than capable of fending off Kawada-san by himself, since it took the combination of Yagyuu, Jackal, Marui and Yanagi to deal with Echizen (Jackal and Yagyuu to hold Kirihara down, Marui because he was the only one loud and annoying enough to temporarily flummox Echizen, Yanagi apparently for moral support and because after three years of being together the Rikkai team still couldn’t stay non-chaotic without one of the Big Three to keep them in check). Yukimura paused for a second after Kirihara snarled and attempted to lunge through Jackal’s forearms at Echizen, but changed his mind and continued walking, more peaceful than anyone should have been in four-inch-high platforms.

By the time they had discovered and ensconced themselves in a café pricey to deter anyone other than a Hyoutei student, and almost as importantly _dark_ enough that no one could see make out what they were wearing, Fuji had catalogued at least three things he did not like about Yukimura: one, he seemed to have all of Tezuka’s advantages without Tezuka’s faults, i.e dysfunctional social manners and a general lack of personality. Two, he had a great deal of teammates whose friendships he shamelessly took advantage of and who seemed to adore him despite it all, while Fuji placed a great deal of time and effort – almost as much as he did into contriving ways to upset the teachers - cultivating his family’s happiness, and received a daily torrent of scowls from his brother in return. Three, he seemed amused at this whole situation, which Fuji agreed was highly entertaining provided that _one was not wearing a dress_ , but Yukimura didn’t seem to consider that a deterrent.

He did some quick sums in his head while Yukimura ordered two lattes whose combined price could have bought an hour’s worth of Nakasato’s kisses (or Oishi’s or his own, but Fuji didn’t want to think about that) and realized that there was a fourth reason: even allowing for the fact that not _all_ of the overflowing bags belonged to him, Yukimura had almost certainly received more chocolate than he or Tezuka were likely to get.

“Bunta gets more than I do,” Yukimura said, when Fuji brought up the fact. “Most of what Jackal´s carrying belongs to him; Akaya and Genichirou are carrying mine as well as their own, which is not inconsiderable. Actually,” he said, “we came to see because Tachibana Kippei told us you were running a kissing booth and we weren’t sure whether to believe him or not. Valentine’s Day is a rather strange day to have a school fair.”

Fuji realized hiding his head beneath the table was not an option, opted to smile and close his eyes instead, and somehow, because Yukimura had those blue sympathetic inexorable eyes drilling into his skull, brought out the whole story about the strange new school principal, and Nakasato-san’s legs, and somehow Tezuka’s miraculous ability to get away with anything and Yuuta watering the cacti got mixed up in it as well, and by the end of it the coffee had long since arrived and was lukewarm and untouched.

Yukimura took a sip of chocolate-dusted foamy milk, as if Fuji had not just produced a heart-wrenching confession. “I think Nakasato-san likes you,” he said slowly.

It was not a suggestion that hadn’t occurred to him, but—“Nakasato likes everything that’s male and attractive and has anything like social status,” Fuji said blandly. “I doubt it’s anything to do with me specifically.”

Yukimura just _looked_ at him; Fuji had the feeling he was used to ordering the Rikkai team around without saying a single word. - “All right,” he conceded, remembering her curls brushing across his shoulder, “perhaps she likes me.”

“Well, then.” Yukimura’s fingers tapped the table. He was wearing fake nails, black with sunflower patterns. “What do you think of her?”

“She’s beautiful and intelligent and-- ” Like milk chocolate, he thought; the thick sugary stuff he received a stack of every year, the gaudy Cadbury boxes he always passed on to Yuuta because his younger brother actually enjoyed eating multiple chunks of 95% sugar while watching television. This didn’t improve his relationship with his brother, since Yuuta would remember that Aniki received more chocolate because he was the _tennis club genius_ , but since it did solve the problem of getting rid of the chocolate Fuji continued the practice. “I don’t like her.”

“Because you prefer men?”

“You mean - no!” Fuji never shouted, but this came close.

“Oh, good.” Yukimura looked relieved; his tennis captain powers did not apparently extend to resolving crises of sexual identity.

Fuji continued indignantly, “I should think _you_ would know better than to make assumptions based on,” he waved vaguely at his own dress and flower-bedecked hair and ice-blue eyeshadow and, “well, on what people look like.”

“People assume that about me all the time,” Yukimura said. Fuji took another sip of latte, which meant that he could avoid staring meaningfully at Yukimura. “The difference is that no one who knows me well ever maintains assumptions, whereas I don’t think anyone really knows about you. Not even Tezuka, and he’s your captain.”

Sipping the coffee had been a bad idea; Fuji nearly choked. “Is there some relationship between being one’s tennis captain and being aware of one’s sexual hang-ups?”

“You’ve known him for nearly five years,” Yukimura pointed out, “He ought to be in a position to make some educated guesses about your personality.”

Silence except for the clink of coffee cups on glass tables. Fuji remembered one prickly rain-drenched conversation nearly three years ago, as well as a long drawn-out match involving Rikkai (was Rikkai destined to forever be involved in his personal development?), both of which combined had resulted in strange and bothersome efforts to improve his tennis – but it was a period Fuji had consigned to his memory locker, less regrettable than the brief infatuation with shoujo manga but scarcely more important – or was it?

 _Where is the real you?_

“I _tried_ ,” he said crossly, “During junior high. I can’t be the glowing, simple beacon of tennis light you and Tezuka want people to be.” Real people, he thought. Real people are complex.

“You got us that time,” Yukimura said, a wistful smile on his lips. “That year was magnificent.”

Fuji remembered the year they won Nationals, remembered Yukimura and Rikkai and how _crazy_ they were, even crazier than they were now and Seigaku had been crazy too but it was telling that Yukimura seemed to long for that time all over again, while Fuji had fond recollections but with the nostalgic air of someone – well, perhaps not wiser, but certainly older. 

 _Fuji_ was real. It was Tezuka and Yukimura who were going to be authentic and free and break tennis records and inspire another generation of dreamers. Normal high school students had shades of grey and blurred dreams and masked intentions; their lives weren't changed just because intense narrowed bespectacled eyes or shining blue soulful ones stared at them for several minutes of harrowing unworldly inspiration.

“So, the outfit,” he said to change the subject, just because. “You have my explanation, what about yours?”

To his surprise, Yukimura looked embarrassed.

“It was the soccer captain,” he said, and Fuji was confused before recalling that Rikkai was nearly as renowned for soccer as it was for tennis. “Kirihara and Niou spread toilet paper across their locker room at Christmas, and to compensate I took the bet that if I didn’t make it to the Australian Open, I’d wear an outfit of their choosing for Valentine’s Day.” Yukimura frowned, and Fuji remembered that losing at tennis was the only thing capable of upsetting a Rikkai regular. “I didn’t expect a wildcard, but not making it to the semifinals of the qualifier disrupted my pride somewhat. In any case, Renji and Genichirou told me it's good character development.”

“Ah,” said Fuji, and couldn’t think of anything else to say. This bore a striking resemblance to his conversations with Tezuka, although Yukimura at least punctuated the silence. “About Nakasato-san,” he volunteered, and tried to couch it in terms that Yukimura would understand. “She doesn’t like tennis.”

She didn’t like cacti either, or spicy food, and she had parents who loved and spoiled her shamelessly and two extremely cute younger sisters who adored and would grow up to be just like her, but Fuji had done quite enough confessing for one day, and while he was feeling good about it - as if he’d just traded Yuuta a box of chocolate in exchange for wasabi sushi – he didn't think Yukimura was very interested in cacti. Probably.

“Ah,” said Yukimura, and said, "Maybe we could play a friendly match over spring break.” As if that would solve all the problems in the world. Maybe for Yukimura it did.

#

On Monday morning Fuji walked up to Nakasato-san in front of the school doors and told her without smiling that he was not interested in her.

Nakasato looked up at him, and Fuji thought her eyes might have widened for a moment before they narrowed and she slapped him hard across the left cheek; it stayed red for hours, like badly applied rouge.

Then she made him carry her books to class.

Later during geography there might or might not have been a hint of wetness tinting her lashes. Fuji did not care much, and was unsurprised to find that he did not care.

#

It was during after-school practice that day, with Eiji sitting cross-legged on the courts bewailing the the fact of college entrance exams, and even his easygoing parents thinking he should quit tennis or at least give up his regular spot, that Fuji said, smile stretching across his lips and bordering on genuine, I think I'll stay in 3A next year.


End file.
